


At Home

by ToukoTai



Category: Red vs Blue
Genre: Gen, ghost story, worst best haunting ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToukoTai/pseuds/ToukoTai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The funny part is York might have lived however long in that house without even realizing there was ghost there.</p><p>crossposted from tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Home

There’s a ghost haunting York’s new house. Well, new old house. It’s about fifty years old and was built by a father of five with his own two hands, before he died of a heart attack finishing the master bedroom. It changed hands a few times, and the previous tenant had finished the master-bedroom. And then moved out to retire in Florida. York had met the guy once and had no desire to do so again. No one human could be that cheerful.

It’s a modest two floor building with an attic and a basement. A really creepy basement with packed dirt flooring and plywood leading from the stairs to the chest freezer and boiler. A single naked bulb light, that did nothing to really dispel the shadows and darkness in the large expanse, dangled from the ceiling. The ceiling that had the support-beams of the house at perfect forehead hitting height. North and South refused to go into the cellar. But not because of the ghost.

The ghost didn’t reside in the cellar, or the dusty, humid attic. Or even the master bedroom. The ghost lived in a small room, barely bigger than a closet, in the back of the second level. Right next to the stairs. York knows this, because the ghost told him so. The ghost is actually a pretty bad conversationalist, and doesn’t really tend to elaborate but that hasn’t stopped York from talking at him. Doesn’t always mean he gets a response. He’s known his ghost for half a year now and still doesn’t know how he died or why he’s haunting this house. York hates to think of how anti-social he must have been in life.

The funny part is York might have lived however long in that house without even realizing there was ghost there. One, because he was a case study in obliviousness with regards to his own living space.(CT once lived for two months on his couch without him really noticing.) And two, because his ghost was a horrible ghost.

Not horrible, in the ‘I’m getting the shit scared out of me at every turn’ way but more in the ‘this kid has no idea how to ghost’ way. In fact, one could say his ghost had read a manual titled how to scare people out of the house for dummies and then just decided to do the exact opposite. It started out small, as haunting are wont to do.

Prior to moving into his shiny new old house, York was forever losing his keys. A source of endless amusement for his friends, that the career locksmith couldn’t keep track of his own keys. Now if he couldn’t find his keys, they were always located on the key rack Carolina had gotten him for Christmas one year and forcibly hung in his kitchen during the move, over his loud protests.(She could say what she wanted, but a cheerful, smiling, bright fucking yellow sun was never the first thing York wanted to see in the morning.) Even if he clearly remembered not putting them there, even if he had never and would never, hang his keys there on his own, ever. Every morning there they were, hanging from one of the sunbeam yellow pegs. It was uncanny. (He would never admit it, but it was really handy to have them right there as he was running out the door to his car.)

His house also seemed to have an aversion to dust and dirt. Picture frames never developed that film of dust over the edges, shelves stayed the normal glowing brown of polished wood. Mud tracks and scuff marks were mysteriously gone by the following morning. York didn’t really notice these developments, beyond the fact that his mornings were a bit more streamline without him having to spend twenty minutes looking for his keys.

Then things started to escalate.

Dishes that had been left in the sink overnight, were either cleaned and put away or in the drying rack come morning. Jackets that had been left on sofa, the floor, the coffee table, were on a hanger in the hall closet when York thought to look. Shoes and boots were placed neatly on the mat by either the front door or the side door in the kitchen.

His dvds, cds, and books were suddenly alphabetized on their shelves and racks. Cd’s and dvd’s that had migrated cases had returned to their original ones and ones left out or in the machine were put away. And still York didn’t think too much of it, for most he figured Carolina had swung by or that CT was once again living part-time off his sofa.(It was strange that he didn’t see her more then usual and that none of her stuff was in his house.)

By the time the coffee pot was turning on by itself just before he got up and his bed was remaking itself while he was gone, York may have had the inkling that things weren’t quite normal with his new old house. And he found it highly embarrassing that South had to be the one to point this out to him, when North and her stayed over one night.

“York,” North began, when York entered the kitchen the following morning.

“Blaghba?” Which meant that York was paying strict attention, despite the bedhead and squinty eyed look of someone not a morning person.

“Does your coffee maker have a timer?” York stopped in the middle of his morning shuffle to said coffee machine and scrunched his entire face up in thought.

“No?” He finally managed. North and South shared a look.

“Are you a fucking moron?” No one ever said South was gentle about breaking news. York squinted at her.

“No?” He ventured after a few seconds of thought.

“Your house cleans up after itself and turns your goddamn coffeepot on for you.” South tells him. “Figure that shit out. It’s fucking creepy.”

So York does. And calls South when he does.

“York, I am going to fucking skin you alive! It’s four in the goddamn morning!”

“I figured it out South. I’ve got a ghost.”

“Fuck you.” And she hung up. York slipped his cellphone back in his pocket and smiled at the mostly transparent figure standing in the middle of his living room.

“So my name’s York. What’s your’s?” The ghost looked to be in his late twenties, with short hair sticking out from under a beanie. And he had seemed incredibly unimpressed with York, when the other had jumped from over the stair rail on the second floor, landing mostly okay to point dramatically at him shouting “I got you Carolholyfuckit’safuckingghost!” Now he was eying York suspiciously, arms crossed over his chest. And finally he spoke.

“Washington.”


End file.
